


Wishes and Whiskey

by niikaaa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niikaaa/pseuds/niikaaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sad little Dean vignette loosely inspired by Amanda Palmer's 'Trout Heart Replica.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishes and Whiskey

He didn’t remember driving the Impala off the road, but it must have happened, because that’s where she was sitting now. Something tells him he should be upset, but he can’t find it within himself to get angry. The whiskey has clouded everything, and he can’t think straight. He doesn’t want to think straight.

But it’s cold, and getting colder, and he should be back at the motel, lying on another cheap mattress, fighting his way through the nightmares he never mentions, and he can’t get there with Baby’s nose lodged in the mud.

He opens the door and staggers out, pulling his jacket tighter around him. The whiskey had made him so warm before, buzzing deliciously right down to his gut, so why did he feel so cold now? It didn’t make any sense. But he pushes it from his mind. Gotta find a farmhouse with a tractor and a chain. Gotta get Baby back on the road.

He doesn’t make it very far. The ground is spongy and wobbly and refuses to stay even under his feet, and before long he finds himself falling.

Sammy’s gonna kill him when he finds out he was out drinking all night, and then kill him again when he finds out he was driving drunk. Dad’s gonna kill him when he sees what happened to the car. Except John’s already dead and gone.

It hurts. Everything hurts. His stomach hurts and his head hurts but most of all his heart hurts. It’s been years. Years of drinking and sex and distractions and hunting and trying to forget the pain in his chest. Every heartbeat is a gunshot. Every breath is a stab wound.

He can handle pain. He just can’t handle this much pain. But he doesn’t want to give it all up. It’s what drives him. It’s all he knows. But if his heart was half the size, it’d be perfect. He could still care. He could still feel. But maybe he’d be able to sleep at night. Maybe the guilt would fade. Maybe Mary and John and Ben and Lisa and Cassie and Sam and everyone else he’d ever hurt would bother him a little less, stop showing up every time he closed his eyes.

He closes his eyes and offers a prayer to the Wizard of Oz, smiling slightly as his sought-after oblivion finally takes over and he’s gone.


End file.
